


The Lack of Friendship

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Community: watsons_woes, F/M, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26045941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: Watson invites his future wife to Baker Street for tea. Holmes is not sure whether it was wise to agree to that plan.Prompt: "I would love to see some Holmes-Watson-Mary interaction, before Watson's marriage. Watson being a lovesick puppy-type; Mary going back and forth between pushing Holmes's buttons just because she's awesome like that, and showing him that she's not a threat to him or his friendship with Watson, and Holmes basically get out of my house if you're going to smooch on the settee plz thx. Happy domestic stuff, etc.Not movieverse, please, unless it can easily be read as bookverse. :)"
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Mary Morstan & John Watson
Kudos: 4





	The Lack of Friendship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kcscribbler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcscribbler/gifts).



> _Archiving note:_ I am importing this fic to AO3 in August 2020 for archiving purposes. It has not been edited since its original publication in 2010.
> 
>  _Original A/N on LJ:_ This one is yet again written for the first meme of watsons_woes, to a request of kcscribbler. I hope you like it, kcscribbler! The title is from the quote at the beginning of the story.

_It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages._

\- Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

I could not for the life of me figure out why I had agreed to this. I despised social gatherings as a whole, and more so in such an atrocious situation. Why was I to play the host to Watson's wooing, when said practice would only put an end to our association?

I would never admit it to anyone, not even my brother, but perhaps it was to a certain degree connected to the way Watson's face had fallen when I had flatly denied his request of inviting his Miss Morstan over for tea, that led me to this situation.

I'm sure even I, with my somewhat limited expertise with the fair sex, could have thought about numerous, vastly more romantic places to be with one's wife in prospective than a bachelor's flat, especially since I had rather neglected the place of late.

Watson was out all day lately, of course, running here and there, from flower shop to jewellery store, and as far as I was informed, even the house agent's, and I had had neither the energy nor the mood to keep the sitting room from cluttering over.

Be it as it may, I could not bring myself to give Watson a hand even now, as he bustled around the room to turn the chaos into something more respectable. The black reaction had hardly ever been so fierce than after the investigation of the Sign of the Four, aggravated only by Watson's joyous bouncing. I really could not fathom how the man survived such a turmoil and agitation – I'm sure my own heart would have burst by now.

“Holmes, really, she is coming in half an hour! Get out of that chair, and for heaven's sake, give me a hand.”

I did not stir. “Why don't you take your fiancée to the theatre?”

“Because we are going to have tea. This is as much my home as it is yours. Where shall I put those papers?”

Not for much longer, as far as I was informed. “If you would kindly leave them where they are...”

“I cannot! The sofa is no place for you clutter, Holmes!”

“Now, doctor, you go too far! As far as I understand it, this will remain my flat for a much longer time than it will be yours, and I really do not see why I should tolerate this any longer! If you want to let your emotions run wild, you can as well leave.”

Clearly, Watson was shocked, if I have ever seen a man be. “Fine, if you want to sulk, go right ahead. But keep out of my way.”

“Gentlemen.” Neither he nor I had heard Mrs Hudson come up the stairs, nor open the door, but there she was, looking slightly taken aback. I did not feel that her motherly look of reproach was entirely adequate.

Watson blanched, collected the papers in a blur and dumped them in my bedroom before he whirled around and tried to straighten his collar and smooth down his hair. “She's here?”

“Yes, doctor. Miss Morstan has just arrived. She is waiting downstairs, shall I ask her up?”

“No, no, I come and get her myself!” Watson bustled out of the door, and Mrs Hudson sent me a look that clearly communicated 'behave yourself', before she, too, left, turning rather briskly.

Somehow, the room temperature had just dropped several degrees.

I slumped back down in my chair, contemplating whether I should leave, and relinquish Watson to his, how I deeply felt, foolish decision, or stay and suffer through an afternoon of watching the two lovers lose their personalities in the pull of emotions. While it was far from my mind to meddle in something I have never strived to understand, I had to keep watch over Watson. Confounding tiger cubs and guns was one thing, but when it came to prescribing strychnine, it was quite another. If the presence of this woman reduced Watson to a bumbling fool, it surely was my duty to save his sanity from such influences.

“Pray, take a seat, Mary.” Watson was making a fool out of himself, basically tripping over the sofa as he directed his fiancée to sit down upon it. “You know Holmes, of course.”

Miss Morstan smiled affably, patting he fiancé's arm, apparently oblivious to the morose look that had settled on my face. I could not for the life of me smooth it out to my usually calm, impenetrable expression. “Yes, dear. Good-day, Mr Holmes. How are you?” Maybe it was just my imagination, but there was something perfectly mocking about her tone, bordering on the infuriating.

I think I manage a nod, hoping that the storm clouds I felt gathering inside my head did not show on my face.

Watson was bustling around at the table, although what he wished to achieve by that was beyond me. Mrs Hudson saved him from rearranging the sitting room décor by bringing the tea, which consequently plunged him into the task of pouring boiling hot tea in tiny cups with trembling hands. How a doctor, and a soldier at that, could become so nervous I could not tell.

Finally, he was ready to over a cup to his wife in prospective, basically falling down on one knee as he handed it to her. She smiled, and took a sip, while her eyes travelled around the room and for too long rested on the Moroccan case on the side table beside my armchair. I did not doubt that she knew what it contained, she had probably been looking for it – Watson was continuously babbling, no doubt he had mentioned it to her.

I rose, and, resisting the urge to plunge the case into the pocket of my dressing gown, strolled over to the window. I felt strangely betrayed, as if Watson had allowed a stranger to pray into my most private affairs. There was no reason why I should alter my habits for this woman, or hide them, for that matter, and there was no reason why she should have any right to intrude into my life!

She cut off Watson's tirade of meaningless anecdotes, slipping her hand into his. “I'm sure your experiences were wonderful, dear. Maybe you tell them another time?”

Watson did not seem to mind the slightest, her touch had made him blush red, and he hastily sat down his cup of tea, else he would have emptied it's contents over Miss Morstan's dress. “Of course. What do you want to talk about?”

“I can't help noticing that your friend has failed to answer my question.”

Watson clearly had no idea what she was talking about, but now both looked up at me expectantly. By that point, I would have rather evaporated into thin air than remain in the room even a minute longer. Watson – or both were mimicking the other's expression, and Watson's thumb moved over the back of her hand constantly, but I doubt they even noticed. No, of course they did not, they rather enjoyed my squirming.

“I'm fine, Miss Morstan, thank you.”

“I see,” she said, in that same tone she had previously addressed me, that one that bordered on mocking. “John and I have finally found a house we will move to after the marriage. I hope you will do us the honour and return the visit?”

I tried to discern her motives from her expression, certain that I would discover some falsity in her eyes, but they remained brutally honest. She was a remarkable woman, to be sure.

“Yes, you must,” Watson agreed, most emphatically, our quarrel of earlier apparently forgotten, although he was so lost in his emotions that he probably only said it to agree with her.

“It's a charming little house.” Miss Morstan squeezed her fiancé's hand and rose, joining me by the window. “Although Baker Street definitely presents a more exciting view.”

“It is rather instructive to the art of deduction,” I replied, uncomfortable with being so close to that woman.

“It is?”

“Oh, yes,” Watson said, standing behind her. She did not hesitate to cuddle, for the lack of a better word, against him.

I felt nauseous, and would have returned to the armchair to get my syringe and disappeared into the bedroom, but the future Watsons had managed to trap me between themselves and the wall.

“I seem to recall one incident shortly after we met, when you deduced the former occupation of a messenger, and I could not believe you.” Watson's hand had slipped back into Miss Morstan's. At least he had ceased his senseless babbling and was more like the man I had come to know.

I chuckled despite myself. “Ah, yes, the former sergeant of Marines.”

“You see, Mary, Holmes deduced it from the anchor tattooed at his wrist, and his military bearing.”

“Your powers really are amazing, Mr Holmes, even after you so splendidly solved my own case for me.”

It may be true that I am easily flattered, especially if it concerns my own line of occupation. I bowed my head to the lady. “Thank you, Miss Morstan.”

Watson, for whatever reason, decided to make his departure. “I'll get some more tea.”

I had no doubt that the pot was still almost full, and I failed to understand why Watson would leave the woman he so obviously adored after having taken all those pains to invite her, but apparently she knew very well why.

As soon as the door closed softly behind Watson, I felt all but lost. I have not been alone with a woman that was not a client for a very long time, and I freely admit that I was at a loss as to what to do with myself. Part of me wanted to be rude to her, to scare her away, but I could not, not for the fear that Watson would leave with her – he had already admitted that he could no longer accompany me on my cases, could it possibly become worse?

I made my way around her, collected the Moroccan case and headed on for the bedroom door, but her firm yet gentle voice froze me in mid-step. “Mr Holmes.”

“Miss Morstan?”

“Please do call me Mary.”

I did not want to be drawn into this chaos of emotions that surrounded them. I did not wish to share into their domestic routine, and watch her spending time with Watson while I was left, once again, alone. Ah, I tried not to ponder on the subject too much. Solitude, as it was, was certainly helpful for studies, but less so for hazardous work and for disproving theories. A man who could put up with myself was rare indeed, and to think that I was about to lose him to something so illogical as love...

“Miss Morstan, I would prefer if you would execute your further meetings with Watson outside my home,” I said, without even trying to appear courteous, without even turning.

To my amazement, she laughed. It was a clear, splendid sound, so honest and friendly that it reminded me instantly of Watson. Maybe I had yet to congratulate him on his choice.

“I can see now, Mr Holmes, why John holds you in so high a regard.”

“You do.” My voice was devoid of any emotion, as I had wanted it to be. This art had taken me years to accomplish, and now I felt deeply that it was not as sophisticated as I would have liked it to be. Outwardly, it was perfect, but sadly, it did not include my innermost thoughts.

“Yes, believe me, I have no intention of destroying the friendship between the two of you.”

I turned to face her. Few things make me speechless, but I had to confess that I was. I could not comprehend how she could possibly imagine that the association between Watson and myself should continue. If he was to accompany me on my cases, he would be away from his domestic routine for hours, probably days, and certainly she could not wish to let her husband face the dangers that my profession inevitably holds? Her instinct would have made Miss Morstan herself an invaluable asset to any detective, and she was very similar to Watson in many ways, and if his fussing was any indication, she could not possibly allow him to come anyway near harm.

“I realise, Mr Holmes, that if I marry John, I do get you and your cases as well.”

It did not sit well with me to be treated in such fashion, as if I was an object, belonging to anyone but myself. I have always cherished my independence, and chaffed at any restrictions that were placed upon me. “How so?”

“Without you, John Watson would not be the man he is. He would probably have turned to drink, as as many war veterans have, but you and your cases gave him something interesting, something to help him cope with his injuries. If I were to rip you two apart, I would destroy him in turn.”

I had never thought of our relationship as something mutual. It had seemed to me always to be a arrangement for my benefit alone, for I gave little in return. I can be arrogant, taciturn, trying and positively infuriating, but never had I thought to add 'helpful' to my list of traits. “Indeed.”

“You hadn't realised, had you?” She smiled. “Forgive me if it seems like I am mocking you, I assure you, I am not. I just cannot help to think of you and John as the two boys I look after for Mrs Forrester.

“No, I am firmly convinced that it is not within my right to break your friendship, and both of you in turn, and I am sure both John and I would be very disappointed if you would prefer that course of action.”

“I do not, Miss Morstan,” I said, with all the honesty I could muster. I felt like I was talking around a lump in my throat, and I fear that my voice was for once thick with emotion. “But I feel that it is my duty to warn you: I am no easy man to be acquainted with.”

“I fully realise that,” she replied, her tone businesslike and gentle at the same time.

At that moment, Watson strolled back into the sitting room. “More tea and biscuits!” He deposited the tray on the table and offered a biscuit to his fiancée, who was still facing me with a slight twinkle in her eyes.

“Dear, wasn't there something you would like to ask Mr Holmes in my presence?”

“Ah, yes.” Watson blushed and cleared his throat, shifting and slipping his hand into Mary's in search of something to hold onto before he took a step towards me. “Holmes, I wondered, if you would consider-” His next words came out in a blur, and I did not get a single one of them.

“I'm sorry, Watson. I fear I did not get that.”

Miss Morstan was desperate to stifle her laughter.

“Confound it, you know perfectly well what I asked! Would you consider becoming my best man?!”


End file.
